


The Round

by KriKee



Category: Naruto
Genre: Gen, Open to Interpretation, What Was I Thinking?, i was legitimately high on medicine when I wrote this, kinda music?, kinda poetry, no beta we die like men, not even joking about being high, sort of meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 21:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17609231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KriKee/pseuds/KriKee
Summary: Zetsu was a creature shaped by the will of a goddess to bring war and summon her back. His mind a war drum, he conducts world's actions to music only he can hear.





	The Round

**Author's Note:**

> I was legitimately high using three types of medicine for the first time to manage my sleep disorder. Even I don't know what this is, but it sounds kind of nice.

The world is calm, quiet, recovering, until a thrum courses through the bones and shakes the fires and the skies with arrival. She joins; soft, sweet, until a strident war strains the back of the war and blood paints the ground like the sunset after an eruption. Her voice breaks out. Bright, clear, a silver trumpet through the shrieking disharmony, and lulls the world into rhythm. In, out, up and down, turn and bow, twist and flourish, trill and sink to pianissimo. 

Maintain. Maintain. Maintain.  
Every beat the same.  
Every note the same.  
The world bows to her gestures. 

From thence, the maestro. He listens to the world's secret whispers and divines the harmony. Beckons it forth with gentle, skilled hands; potter shaping clay. A nine-part madrigal bespeaking all the dualities in the world. Of fire, water, sand, air, wood, stone, lightning, death, life, healing, pain, fury and vengeance, calm and peace and the poison that matches innocent joy breath for breath. 

Later, neither greater nor lesser, dark timbre and high soprano split, a joyful duet spiralling above the world and around; students under the maestro, kin to him and the one who brought the order of the measure. A cracked voice, unexpected discord and a twisting, infected green warps into the chorus. Dissonance splits them. It rises.

The war drums shake the bowels of the earth.  
Soprano discords rent the air.  
The wind shrieks, the world's baritone crumbles and croaks.  
The order is lost.  
The duet is lost.  
The maestro is gone.  
Her echoes linger in shattered mirror fragments.  
At night faintest drum whispers seed the minds of the world.  
The puppet master chants the old songs.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain. Hold.  
Every beat the same.  
Every note the same.  
The world bows to her gestures.

The song ends - the song begins. 

The war drums shake the bowels of the earth.  
Soprano discords rent the air.  
The wind shrieks, the world's baritone crumbles and croaks.  
Her echoes linger in shattered mirror fragments.  
At night faintest drum whispers seed the minds of the world.  
The puppet master chants the old songs.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain. Hold.  
Every beat the same.  
Every note the same.  
The world bows to her gestures.

The song ends-begins again.

Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo until the watercolour memories is blurred by the fog of aeons and twisted like an abandoned toy's strings.  
At night faintest drum whispers seed the minds of the world.  
The puppet master chants the old songs.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain.  
Hold.  
Every beat the same.  
Every note the same. 

The song en - begins again. 

Later, neither greater nor lesser, dark timbre and high soprano split, a joyful duet spiralling above the world and around; students under the maestro, kin to him and the one who brought the order of the measure. Song reconstructed. A wonder, a miracle. 

Can't you hear the perfect duet? 

High soprano sings the forests into being, of the dawn and warmth; he calls a warrior of ice and the coldest depths of the oceans. Cool tenor, to aid when the pitch is too high. When the soprano wobbles. The baritone boils, nature's core given body again, summons a brighter, hotter flame. Sun arcs dancing and spiralling around him; prominences of warm tenor and contralto notes both. Equal measure and in balance. The duet a quartet now. 

And the puppet master chants the old songs.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain.  
Hold.  
Every beat the same.  
Every note the same.  
The war drums shake the bowels of the earth.  
Soprano discords rent the air.  
The wind shrieks, the world's baritone crumbles and croaks.  
Her echoes linger in shattered mirror fragments. 

A lightning strike shatters the corona of the sun and the earth freezes. A quartet turned discordant duet; the soprano falters and fades, even as icy tenor and the warrior of fire and storms rise in support. The harmony ends.  
The song ends-begins again, echo leeching onto echo leeching echo until the watercolour memories is blurred by the fog of aeons and twisted like an abandoned toy's strings. 

The soprano shatters. A soloist no more, the tenor steps into the spotlight, but the high perfection is fragile as winter's first ice. The song dances in his soul. Maintain. Maintain. Maintain. Hold. Every beat the same. Every note the same. Cease the drums, bring pianissimo and lullabies. He teaches. Hear our songs; our lessons; our history. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo until the watercolour memories is blurred by the fog of aeons and twisted like an abandoned toy's strings and perverting the first song's rhythms of time immemorial, soul immemorial.

The war drums shake the bowels of the earth.  
Soprano discords rent the air.  
Shriek on shriek on shriek.  
String screech and winds wail and the percussion shatters the bones and soul and minds and the disharmony will not end can't you hear the song the perfect duet can't you hear through the puppet master's noise can't you hear her desires and wishes to maintain maintain maintain all the same every note every beat every measure even and precise and dead dead dead dead for what is music without variations?

Cool tenor dies. The alto dies. 

Another group steps forth. Soothing prodigal bass; a lullaby exploding for moments into a fortissimo tirade and fading to murmurs. Shadow-sly strategist sounding the beat, marching the time. Metronome and lead and support. Soprano and tenor and contralto: medic and scientist and second string musicians to lead. 

The war drums shake the bowels of the earth.  
Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo until the watercolour memories is blurred by the fog of aeons and twisted like an abandoned toy's strings and perverting the first song's rhythms of time immemorial, soul immemorial.  
Soprano discords rent the air. Shriek on shriek on shriek. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo. A clatter, a clamour, an ear-wrenching agony.  
String screech and winds wail and the percussion shatters the bones and soul and minds and the disharmony will not end and the song - song begins again.

Bass reaches out, rumbling and soft. A trio to sing now to balance and gentle the world's music. Soprano, tenor, baritone.  
Fiery medic, burning soul and bones of mountains.  
Shadow-sly prodigy, the concert master - perhaps.  
Gentle bass humming warmth and lullabies and poisoned, perverted chords through the background, twisting the guts.

Echoes linger in shattered mirror fragments.  
At night faintest drum whispers seed the minds of the world.  
The puppet master chants the old songs.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain.  
Hold. Every beat the same.  
Every note the same. 

Strategist - a concert master of the old round chants the old songs. Chants the songs of nature's fire. Nature's fire chants the songs of the puppet master. Puppet master chants her songs. Her songs of songlessness. Of noise. Each song never-ended and always-begun. Stopping-starting-stopping-starting and twisting devouring.

Bass reaches out, rumbling and soft. A trio to sing now to balance and gentle the world's music. Soprano, tenor, baritone.  
Fiery medic, burning soul and bones of mountains. Shattered on lightning's fist and broken chords.  
Gentle bass humming lullabies of poisoned, perverted chords through the background, twisting the guts.  
Shadow-sly prodigy, the could-have-been concert master; ambition lost under mountain's crumbling bones.

Echo upon echo upon echo blurring and smudging. Each song new and the same and there will never be creativity for the puppet master chants the old song – a drone staining the brain and thought and bones into mindlessness.  
Maintain. Maintain. Maintain.  
Balance and beat and pause and balance and beat and pause.  
Forever pianissimo.

Hear our songs; our lessons; our history. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo until the watercolour memories is blurred by the fog of aeons and twisted like an abandoned toy's strings and perverting the first song's rhythms of time immemorial, soul immemorial.  
The war drums shake the bowels of the earth. Hear our songs; our lessons; our history. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo.  
Soprano discords rent the air. Hear our songs; our lessons; our history. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo  
Shriek on shriek on shriek. Hear our songs; our lessons; our history. Echo leeching onto echo leeching echo.  
Blood soaked sheets of music so used as to fade the ink to bleached shadows. Winding cloth for generations of the dead, audience to our neverending dirge.

Shadow-sly should-have-been concert master reaches out, rumbling and soft. A trio to sing now to balance and gentle the world's music.  
Soprano - no, alto; ten - a bass, baritone - a contralto wavering between ranges with ease.  
Fiery medic, burning soul and bones of mountains. If she ever blooms from the fickle sand. Shadow-sly prodigy,fury of the betrayed dead; a melody poisoned before ever note was put to paper.  
Contralto dances with discord and the cracked voice of the untrained. 

And the war drums whisper.

Echoes of the last round reach out, "Learn from us; we are masters," they whisper.  
The clarion of strident trumpets sound!  
Can't you hear the duet of war?!

Dark bass and wavering contralto soar, twisting and tumbling through the aria with ease; and the alto falters, struggles, ever chasing the suns of the natural born singers.

And the puppet master whispers the old songs, wakes you from your sleep and you chant and chant and chant.  
Now comes the red dawn  
Now comes the reincarnation of war  
Don your armour  
Sharpen the blades  
The orchestra splinters again.

The song ends - begins - the madrigal dies under the poisonous lullabies wrought by an echo of a song lost. Nine, then eight, then seven and one by one the vocals fade away.

The drums beat and beat and beat.

Wake, lady of constancy.

The mightiest of storms is but a whisper of the drums pounding upon the world, breaking its back.

And the composer awakes.  
She gestures.  
And the silence begins.  
The noise begins.  
Can't you hear the song?

Dark bass and wavering contralto stumble.

They turn to their teachers of the old echo, they turn to their teachers of the old echo, they turn to the teachers of the old echo and the echo and echo and echo endlessly stretches into history. Reconstructed and bring forth the forest soprano and the baritone of fire.  
They bow. Step out of the light into the darkness of the orchestral pit.  
Unaccompanied, defying the conductor, the blank page before them; they sing.

Harmony, soft, tentative.  
A new dream.  
Peace. Rest. Calm. Newness they sing. Peace. Rest. Calm. Newness they - peace. calm. rest. newness the alto sings. And again and again, echo upon echo; the faded memories of concerts sunk into the walls of the hall bend the ear and twist.

They follow untutored melody.

The lady of constancy dies.

The chorus sings and sings, bright and joyous, forte to pianissimo and back and through every range.

The echo begins again.

Shadow-sly medic.  
Fiery, untaught alto. Dreaming soloist.  
Supporting tenor to carry their notes.

The war drums whisper.

The tenor fades into the darkness and the trio becomes a struggling duet.

The war drums dance through the minds.

The old echoes have returned.

The war drums dance through the minds.

The song ends. And begins again. Around and around. Always the same, no matter the variation.


End file.
